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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687128">Growing Pains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda'>Captain_Panda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Growing Pains [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers, The Avengers (2012) - Freeform, Tony Stark Needs a Hug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:00:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“So.”  Hopping up onto the top bunk loudly enough to make it creak ominously, Tony began, “Much as I fantasize about being trapped underneath a gorgeous slab of super-soldier—and I do—I think this is logistically soundest.”</em>
</p><p>They'll make a great team someday--at least, Nick Fury seems to think so. Tony is less sure that Nick's helicarrier rooming assignments were made in sound mind, but if Tony and Steve don't kill each other, it'll be a great start.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Growing Pains [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>177</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Growing Pains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Did <em>Indolesco</em> and <em>Doleo</em> make you sad? Have some old-school bickering bunk bed boys to cheer you up, brought to you by: "Oh my God, they were roommates."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So.”  Hopping up onto the top bunk loudly enough to make it creak ominously, Tony began, “Much as I fantasize about being trapped underneath a gorgeous slab of super-soldier—and I do—” he heard a deep sigh below him, followed by a louder, more threatening creak; after assuring himself that the whole structure was not about to collapse, he concluded, “I think this is logistically soundest.”</p><p>“<em>I</em> think,” Rogers gritted out, then sighed again, another deep, pained-to-the-soul sound that had Tony grinning at the ceiling as Rogers finished tamely, “we catch <em>Loki</em> tomorrow.”  Peevishly, he ordered, “Get some sleep.”  The mattress creaked noisily as he rolled onto his side, signing off on the conversation.</p><p>Cheerfully ignoring the signal, Tony blared on: “Ten-to-one says Barton and Romanoff are—”</p><p>“Don’t be crass,” Rogers growled, but it was too late.</p><p>“—fucking,” Tony finished, deliberately bouncing on the mattress to make it squeak.  “Be honest, that’s the only reason <em>they </em>get co-ed, right?”</p><p>“They’re <em>partners</em>,” Steve reminded stiffly, sounding like Tony had insinuated that his uncle had had relations with his mother, utterly missing the irony of his own words.  “Back off.  The scanner—” the way he said it, <em>scan-nah,</em> had Tony stifling a snicker against his arm, “will run all night.  Once we get a hit, we need to be ready.”</p><p>“Maybe you’re a tired old boar, but <em>I</em> can go all night,” Tony purred, making the mattress squeak again.  A firm, unapologetic <em>kick</em> from below—to the <em>seat of his pants, </em>no less—made him squawk indignantly.</p><p>“<em>Knock</em> it <em>off</em>,” Rogers growled.</p><p>“I’ll kill you,” Tony grumbled right back, folding his arms over his chest, staring at the ceiling moodily.  “You know I could.  Old man.”</p><p>“Go to sleep, Stark.”</p><p>Making a disgusted noise, Tony rolled over, planted his face in the threadbare mattress, and bemoaned loudly, “It’s not even midnight, I’m <em>bored</em>.”  He waited for Rogers to deliver a witty repartee, but Rogers ignored him completely.  <em>That</em> simply would not stand.</p><p>“All right, I’m coming in,” he declared, and had the gratification of a muffled—“What?” before he landed on top of Steve Rogers, moodily buried under a single blanket, hotter than a furnace and madder than a nest of hornets.</p><p>“Stark, I <em>swear </em>to <em>God</em>,” Rogers snapped, thrashing like a gator, throwing Tony off his back so quickly that Tony barely registered landing on it in the first instance before he was being deposited onto the concrete floor.  <em>Ow.</em>  Like the moody gator retreating to its murky abode, Rogers subsided onto his comically undersized mattress with the blanket tucked over his head and shoulders, back held rigidly to Tony.</p><p>“Fine,” Tony huffed.  Reaching up to gingerly feel the bruise forming on the side of his head—his goddamn luck, getting in fisticuffs before the real showdown even <em>began</em>—he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and sifted as loudly as humanly possible through his bag at the far side of the room.  He made a show of unzipping the bag and dumping everything inside it noisily onto the floor, yearning only for a kitchen sink to enhance the cacophony. </p><p>Making a valiant attempt to ignore him completely, Rogers growled when he turned on the lights.  “<em>Stark.</em>”</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Tony indulged the request, if only for the illusion of being compliant: he flicked them off again with a muttered <em>fine, fine, lights out</em>.  Sifting around in the darkness by feel alone, he quickly found his weapon of choice, stuffing the rest of his supplies aside and sauntering back to their bunk bed—and his quarry.</p><p>He made a show of grabbing the ladder like he would climb up to his own bunk, one hand on the electric screwdriver.  Toying with the voltage, he briefly considered the same nip he’d used on Dr. Banner before asking himself, seriously and with real concern for his own health, when he’d come to make <em>friends</em>. </p><p>Remorselessly switching the dial to its full non-lethal <em>kick</em>, he jabbed the sharp end against the bastard’s calf.</p><p>Rogers let out a gratifying bellow, flinging an arm back to grab him, but Tony had already danced out of reach, heart beating in malevolent enjoyment as Rogers, still tangled in the sheet, overbalanced and face-planted on the floor.</p><p>“Constant vigilance,” Tony told him, relishing his victory, then froze as, between one heartbeat and the next, he found himself trapped in a very firm, slightly sweaty headlock, completely at the mercy of two-hundred-and-forty-pounds of pissed-off super-soldier.  The screwdriver was gone, and he felt dangerously exposed without his suit, utterly naked without even a shirt, clinging to the arm wrapped around his neck, not constricting, not choking, just pressed tight against it, Rogers’ chest heaving against his back. </p><p>“Let me go,” he warned, low, seething—more scared than angry, he was unhappy to admit, grateful his voice was too quiet to shake audibly, gripping Rogers’ arm too hard to shake from anything more than strain.</p><p>“No.”  The word was stiff and laden, more furious than he had ever heard Rogers, and for a moment, Tony seriously entertained the thought that Steve Rogers was going to snap his neck, end it here and now, once and for all.  He gripped Rogers’ arm as tightly as he could, but Rogers didn’t give an inch, and he found himself jerking, almost spasmodically, instinctive attempts to be free only emphasizing how firmly he was caught.  “We done?” Rogers growled.  The words were hot against his ear, everything about Rogers over-warm, like lightning—his speed, his intensity, his ability to kill. </p><p>Suddenly wishing very much that he had chosen to bunk with the God of Thunder instead, Tony nodded stiffly, but Rogers didn’t let go.  “Are we <em>finished</em>?” he insisted.</p><p>Furious, panicked, a headache pulsing in his head where it had struck the floor after his first misguided sneak attack, Tony sank his teeth into Rogers’ arm, not precisely hard enough to send him reeling, but hard enough to mean it.  With a disgusted noise, Rogers finally pushed him away, invisible hackles raised. </p><p>“You just can’t let it go, can you?” Rogers snapped, sounding as harried as Tony felt, lip curled in the hint of a snarl.  Blue eyes, illuminated eerily by the arc reactor, bored into him, searching relentlessly for answers.  “Can’t ever do anything that isn’t <em>Tony Stark’s </em>way, can you?”</p><p>“Is this about me?”  The words were quiet, measured, thankfully stoic.  He could almost feel the momentum of Rogers’ anger, an earthquake rattling through the floor.  Rogers flicked his gaze up and down him once, observing him, reading something Tony couldn’t define.  Then the air—shifted, cooled, and suddenly Rogers’ voice was not unbending as stone as he retorted softly:</p><p>“Isn’t everything?”</p><p>Swallowing, Tony drew himself up to his full height, very aware that he drew up short—not substantially but <em>enough</em>, bare inches that meant a lot with his bare heels cooling on the stone floor—and reminded emphatically, “I wanna get Loki <em>just </em>as much as you do.  I’m just not as much of a kowtower as you are.”</p><p>A grimace twisted Rogers’ features, there and gone so quickly he almost imagined it.  His voice offered nothing as he retorted, “Playing well with <em>others</em>—being <em>part of a team</em>—isn’t <em>kowtowing</em>.  It’s <em>discipline</em>.”  His jaw hardened.  “Without it?  We’re nothing but in each other’s way.  Tripping over each other to get the same damn flag.  And I’m not here to climb over you.  So you can either <em>fall in line</em>, or you can stand down.”</p><p>Tony evaluated dark blue eyes, rigid posture, the unyielding weight of those words, and finally looked aside, taking in the Spartan quarters they’d been granted, anything other than the immovable object in front of him.</p><p>“You gonna fall in line, soldier?” Rogers asked softly, warningly.</p><p>Tony’s answer came easily, sharply: “We are not <em>soldiers</em>.”</p><p>The heaviness was back in Rogers’ tone as he replied, “That so?  Well, you better damn well get used to the idea.  Because here?  On this ship?  You are.”  Returning to his bunk, he added shortly, “Up at 0500.  Better be ready.”  Exhaled heavily, he said no more.</p><p>Shaken, <em>shaking</em> a little, mad at himself and even madder at Rogers, Tony clenched his fists and his jaw and looked around the small room, refusing to be quelled.  Yet the silence was pervasive, and there was nothing to be done. </p><p>At last, defeated, he let out a shallow breath of his own, kicking Rogers’ mattress briefly on the way back up to the top bunk.  Rogers didn’t even growl, pointedly ignoring him.</p><p>The top bunk felt very empty and ice cold, wobbling unsteadily underneath him as he settled down.  It refused to quiet entirely as he shivered, little creaks that surely had to grate at Rogers’ ears as much as his own.  He shut his eyes, trying to shut it all out, to fall asleep and be home again, to imagine that the nightmare was over, that they had returned the scepter and the tesseract and its secrets and he was free once again.  It was hard; his own room sure as shit wasn’t this <em>cold</em>. </p><p>Tugging his lousy blanket closer to himself, he cursed his own circulation silently and vehemently, cursed also his own impulsive decision to shed his shirt—although in their improvised game of gay chicken, he couldn’t say he was disappointed that Cap gave as good as he got—and finally muttered in reckless hope of an answer, “I can’t sleep.”</p><p>There was nothing but silence from below. </p><p>Resolving to welcome the solitude, he tried to ignore the lump wedged in his throat, frustrated beyond measure because he was <em>cold</em>, dammit. </p><p>He hated being here, hated that he was stuck on an airship, stuck trying to find an errant god and return Fury’s own <em>hubris </em>back to him.</p><p>Then, without warning—it happened so suddenly it nearly startled him out of bed—a warm fuzzy object settled over him. </p><p>A blanket.  Pre-warmed and everything.  He drew it closer to himself, slowly, and it smelled like good coffee tasted: fresh, warm, saturated but not overwhelming.  He tugged it close to his chin, covering his core in borrowed warmth, and felt his shivers die down, the creaking mattress quiet, fade away.</p><p>The lump in his throat eased with it, and he never even said the words, <em>Thank you</em>, before he drifted off to sleep.</p><p>It was nearly 0600 before Rogers said, suddenly and disarmingly, “Stark?”</p><p>Twitching, caught off-guard and unsure where the hell he was for six disorienting seconds, Tony blinked in bewilderment as Steve Rogers looked up at him, shadowed in the dark room but notably in uniform, prim and proper as always, hands folded in front of him.  “Thought you might like to freshen up before the debriefing,” Rogers explained, gesticulating towards the attached bathroom, a shoulder lifting and falling in a shrug.  Tony stared at him, still huddled under his blankets.  “Your call.  Thirty minutes.”  He turned on his heel, already moving towards the door.</p><p>Still sleep muzzy, Tony just managed to say, “Wait,” before Rogers opened the outer door.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Rogers didn’t turn.  “We’re a team,” he said.  Then: “Right?”</p><p>The qualifier, the entreaty for agreement, made Tony echo, “Right.”  And he was surprised to mean it, in an odd, <em>I don’t want to see you gone</em>, way.  It didn’t precisely matter—in seconds, Rogers was gone, and he was alone, prying himself out of bed—but it mattered in another way, the simple concurrence.</p><p><em>Let’s go get this son of a bitch</em>.</p><p>Leaving Rogers’ blanket on top of his own, he resolved to ensure that neither of them had to sleep on the helicarrier again.</p><p>Even if, he could admit, in some quiet, locked away corner of his mind, there were <em>worse</em> things.</p>
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